


rumination: a guided tour

by guesso



Series: Gravity Falls drabbles and snippets [10]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (I always hated proofs), Flashbacks, M/M, because ford can't articulate his emotions, nonsense math (sorry nerds), use of mindscape to express emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27940502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guesso/pseuds/guesso
Summary: For all the words, expressions, languages he knows; for all the intelligence, experience -- sometimes it's just easier to show, rather than tell. And maybe that means using the mindscape to just pull up very specific memories in a certain order. Because Stanford Pines would much rather take the most convoluted route possible, especially if that means he can avoid plainly talking about his emotions (past and present). [Unlike the other drabbles in this series, this is not complete, and cuts off kind of abruptly at the end of the draft I have]
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Series: Gravity Falls drabbles and snippets [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2045817
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	rumination: a guided tour

**Author's Note:**

> I really wish that past me would've written down a general outline. I'd meant to finish this, way back when, but I lost steam after getting this chunk written. I *think* that Stanley didn't previously know for sure if Stanford and Fiddleford were a couple, and Ford was trying to show him how they got together, and how things got messy. How they broke up, separated, then rejoined as uh ... 'research partners' (then got messy again). I feel like this was going to be a fic that incorporated all of my hcs for that mess, and a finale of Ford finally asking Stan what he's supposed to do, because all those years ago, back in college, he really wished he would've had Stan around to help him through this. Stares into the distance. Coulda been great.

Back when he’d found that wreckage of some cheap yellow car out in the forest behind the shack, the thought had never even crossed his mind that it coulda been Ford’s. They’d both gotten their licenses the same day, but Ford had only done it because Pa’d made him. But, now, standing in an alley a block down from the pawn shop in the nerd’s head, yeah, he could see it. 

When they’d entered Ford’s mindscape, they showed up down at the beach, near the(ir) swingset. Stan wondered if that was on purpose, or if that was just how Ford’s brain worked. Maybe he was only doing it so that Stan didn’t feel disoriented. Either way, they made small talk as they hiked up the beach, back up to the road, taking the(ir) familiar path back to the house. And boy, did it feel weird. Stan wanted it to feel nice, good, normal, even, but with the way Ford had been acting, and not really telling Stan what was up, it just felt. Awkward. Or like he was doing this part for show or something. Plus it’s not like he had particularly good memories around these parts - the(ir) old bedroom window made that whole mess flare up - kinda literally.  _ How mad would poindexter get at me for makin some Tums or somethin appear . . . ? _

Of course his keychain had a dumb little light up UFO on it. Of course it did. It was so dorky and so  _ Ford _ , it almost made him laugh. Stan plopped down into the passenger seat while Ford started the car. The radio faded in by itself once they got going, which was kinda weird, but it wasn’t unwelcome. Some static mingled with hosts’ voices, and then settled in to some oldies station. Which, considering the time it looked like they’d gone back to, it would be more like, uh, newbies. He noticed the songs blended together and some of them didn’t really even finish before another started. They weren’t even from the same decades, but somehow they managed to all flow into each other as they drove out of Jersey.

The light would hit them just right, and for a split second Stan could swear they both looked younger. He’d caught glimpses in the side mirror and out of the corner of his eye. That was pretty weird, too, since he looked basically like he did when he’d went to Ford’s place (so, homeless) but cleaned up a bit. His jacket wasn’t gross, his hair wasn’t greasy. Ford still looked like his nerdy high school self, just older, more tired, less baby fat. But then a shadow from a building or something else would block the light and they’d both be wrinkly, worn old men again. 

The highway for sure wasn’t made after the real one. There were random exits in places they shouldn’t have reached yet, weird jumbles of places from different states coming up way too quickly, and one exit he was pretty sure just went off into the sky somehow. Ford just kept driving, all of this apparently normal to him; as if this was his daily commute or something. They were coming up on some more desert-y territory when Ford turned on his blinker (which, ugh, why,) and took an exit ramp down into a city. 

It felt kinda like metropolis meets “charming” touristy old historic downtown. He couldn’t tell where they were at, but he assumed somewhere in California. Which, with everything else, he pieced together they were probably visiting a certain university. Stan didn’t know how he felt about that. Still pretty nauseated, to be frank.

As soon as a ‘University Way’ street sign appeared, he knew he’d been right. There was a sign in front of what he guessed was a main building apathetically displaying “Backupsmore University” and some event in the sliding letter tiles below it. Despite it all, he caught Ford’s almost non-existent smile. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. 

Taking a left off the main drag and driving around what he assumed was the back of campus, they parked the car in a student lot and started walking towards some run-down buildings. Students were lounging around on the grass, on the balconies, half-assing homework.  _ Must be the dorm he stayed in _ . They made their way up two short flights of crumbly concrete stairs and down a rusted walkway. As Ford pulled the keys out of his pocket, a navy blue lanyard unfurled,  _ BU - Dept of Sciences _ printed on it in thin white letters. It was musty and reeked of weed inside ( _ surprise surprise),  _ but it was cooler and a little easier on the eyes than he’d expected. In a few strides they crossed the pod and Ford started messing with some weird cube things that were sitting in a little shelf tacked to the wall. It was one of those calendars with little blocks that you switch around to make the date. He didn’t catch what Ford had set it to, but the sky rapidly brightened, then dimmed, and within a few seconds it was dusk. Ford unlocked the door and they both stepped inside. 

Okay so the easy on the eyes deal didn’t last long - nostalgically tacky wallpaper combined with cheap fluorescent lights gave the whole room a weird haze. But it wasn’t a bad place really. There were a coupla old desks along the wall in the area with warm, burnt orange shag carpet, tons of books and papers on every surface ( _ of course _ ), a little record player and speaker next to the door. Along the left wall as they came in, on the (ugly olive green) laminate side, there was a long counter with a sink and a bunch of drawers. There was also some kind of cabinet with a big dent and scratches covering the doors - most likely from the front door smacking into it. Posters covered sections of the gaudy wave pattern of the walls. There were two closed doors opposite of the front; he assumed they led to a bedroom and bathroom. While Stan took all of this in, Ford looked through the records that were propped up next to the player. 

A faded, plain, light green sleeve gave no indication of what was actually on the record. The sleeve’s edges were worn, exposing the pale manilla of the stiff cardstock. Ford put the record on, slowly brought the needle over, and walked over to the doors on the far side, motioning for Stan to follow. Static crackled in the air for a moment, but no music played. The metallic grating of a key broke the silence, door swinging open, producing a much younger Stanford, and, assumedly, an equally young Fiddleford McGucket.

“I can’t believe this. I solved the problem and produced the correct solution - why does it matter  _ how _ I arrived there?” The younger Stanford was complaining as he threw his backpack on his desk. Fiddleford laughed as he sat down his own bag.

“Well the point isn’t ‘t get an answer; it’s about proving the method,” the smile was obvious in his voice, making up for his head being poked into the cabinet by the front door. “Heaven forbid the ever-intelligent Stanferd Pines ever need t' study or,” he gasped in over-dramatized shock, “actually get some help.” Stan chuckled as he watched the younger nerd slip into a raincoat. Fiddleford then pulled a large easel out of the cabinet where he’d gotten the coat ( _ was that thing some kind of bottomless pit? _ ), and set it up in the shag carpet, next to Ford’s desk. Checking the clock, he rushed back to the cabinet to get a board coated in chalkboard paint. “I’ll save ya the  _ utter shame and embarrassment _ of havin t' go down to the tutorin’ center,” a small piece of yellow chalk squeaked on the board. Younger Ford made an attempt to protest, but Fiddleford cut him off - “Now it should list out the steps towards the beginning of the chapter yer workin’ with, if you could get that out,” Ford obeyed his new makeshift professor with minimal grumbling, even reading aloud when Fiddleford asked him to. They went back and forth, Fiddleford guiding him back to the book after an occasional mistake, Ford scribbling down notes on a scrap piece of paper. “Can someone tell me what we’ve proven using this method?” Fiddleford asked in a scholarly impression, pitching his voice lower. “Ah, yes, you there,”

“The variable ‘i’ is less than three-u,” Ford supplied with a grin, looking down to write the statement in his notes.

“Yes, yes, very good, Mr. Pines,” Fiddleford scritched the solution onto the board, abruptly turning, “Alright, I’ve got ta get down t' th’ lab, but I’ll see ya in a few hours. See if ya can’t figure out another one while I’m gone.” Stuffing his lanyard in his pocket, he rushed out the door, leaving Ford staring, wide-eyed, at the chalkboard.

“That has got to be the sappiest nerd bullshit I’ve ever seen,” Stan commented with a wheeze of a laugh. Older Ford only gave a small, hesitant smile, which stayed briefly on his mouth, never reaching his distant eyes. 

Approaching the record player, Ford moved a slider that would speed up the rpm of the record, effectively serving as a fast-forward for the memory playing out. Stan watched as the memory raced past, younger Ford plunking away at the problem, writing on the board and in his notes, going back to wipe away dusty lines of work. Coming to a solution he was satisfied with, he erased the bottom half of the board and returned to the spot he had been in as a ‘student’. The memory slowed, returning to normal speed with Fiddleford entering the room. They resumed their previous banter, Ford explaining his line of thinking, Fiddleford making marks extending off of what Ford had left there. Referencing the rules they had gone over earlier, Ford went through the next steps, answering Fiddleford’s questions. 

“Thus showing that the variable ‘i’ has proven to be less than three units squared, according to our known method,” Stanford stated, this time keeping his eyes on Fiddleford, who was grinning as he wrote.

“I’m glad you finally get it, Mr. Pines,” laughed out in a half-hearted attempt at the ‘professor’ voice.

The record filled the room with a soft, warm static, and the memory dissolved. 

“That’s it? Ya couldn’ta just told me that topside?” Stan griped from the far side of the room. Lingering warmth from the memory was dissipating; whispers of chilled air taking hold. Ford had stepped through the doorway to rearrange the calendar, and Stan noticed that the records had changed color and order as Ford came back through. Towers of books loomed more ominously, crumpled papers littered the floor. Used mugs, stained with brown rings and splotches were scattered on the counter, the tables. The bedroom door had cracked itself open, showing that their room had become a shared space in the fullest - their beds had been pushed together, blankets haphazard, clothes strewn across the floor, apparently with the aim of going in a hamper. It seemed much more a disaster, overall, than Stan had really expected from the two of them. But Ford did have a habit of letting things slide if he was focused in on something ‘more important’. He knew that much first-hand. The air was heavy, stale.

A faded grey-blue sleeve was in Ford’s hand. With a visible (though inaudible) sigh, he eased the vinyl out, gingerly placing it. As the record started spinning, Ford made his way over to the counter, eyes on the linoleum. 

Stanford was sitting at his desk, obviously having a difficult time with whatever he was working on -- which,  _ that’s a statement _ , Stan thinks to himself. He’s seen Ford frustrated, sure, but never completely lost. 


End file.
